PS 3539 

.03 

1913 



E, POETICAL 
WORKS OF 


JAMES KENNETH TOLKIEN 



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^he Poetical Worlds of James Kenneth ^oll^ien 


Introduction 

HERE ARE POETS and poets; 
great poets and little ones, 
poets’ poets and poets of the 
people, major poets and minor 
ones, famous poets and obs¬ 
cure ones — and it would be 
a very difficult task to de¬ 
cide conclusively in which of these classes it 
is most desirable that one should be named. 
CThe fame and greatness of a poet may be 
said to depend upon his being so fortunate as 
to capture, in a net of words, some particularly 
happy flight of fancy — some winged message 
as it darts through the garden of his dreams — 
a fancy perchance so altogether beautiful and 
so cleverly presented that it carries with it 
to his readers something of the nobility of 
thought and the joy of living, blended with the 
voices of Nature and the aroma of wild flowers 
which are ever to be found in his garden, so 
that the fact is called to the attention of the 
world that here indeed is a poet; and when 
once this discovery is made his reputation is 
secure. Thomas Gray’s claim to fame rests 
almost entirely upon a single poem, the 
“Elegy;” William Cullen Bryant’s greatness 
is largely the result of his “Thanatopsis ” and 
few or none have done more than two or three 
things which could stand the test of time upon 



i. 


















^Ube Poetical Work 5 °f James Kenneth Tolkien 


their individual merits. Some may be able to 
appeal to only the highly cultured intellect, by 
virtue of their vagueness of expression, in the 
same manner that an accomplished musician 
may sometimes please members of his profes¬ 
sion with exhibitions of skill, while failing 
completely to catch the ear for melody of the 
average audience; while others, just as essen¬ 
tially poets in the elemental analysis, failing to 
strike the magic key of success, are denied 
admittance to the inner shrine of the hall of 
fame. Then there are still others who do not 
aspire to fame or greatness (a great many, 
perhaps, who never make the discovery them¬ 
selves that they are poets), but who, if they 
were to choose, would rather be a James Whit¬ 
comb Riley than a Robert Browning; who 
would rather listen to the songs of children 
playing, and sing the homely songs of a plain 
people, than to tickle the fagged intellect of 
the excessively well bred and listen to the 
commendation of publishers and literary clubs; 
who would rather sing to the walls of an empty 
attic and sing as they please than be limited by 
any rule whatsoever, though it should gain 
them the applause of a multitude. ([James 
Kenneth Tolkien delights in sharing his joy 
with others, but if no one cares to listen he 
will sing just the same, from sheer exuberance 
of spirit. CHis poetry is as spontaneous as 
the warbling of birds in springtime or the 




II. 












TT&e Poetical IVorfo of James Kenneth Tolkien 


frolicking of squirrels among autumn leaves, 
and after knowing him intimately as the writer 
has for several years one learns to have less 

pity for the rose that is doomed to 

•» 

"Waste its sweetness on the desert air,* 9 

for one comes to realize that the rose is uncon¬ 
cerned ; and then there is the chance that 
some wanderer, lost in a wilderness of desola¬ 
tion, may be led by its fragrance to the spring 
which gives it life, there to quench his thirst 
and with new strength and hope be better 
prepared to find his way. (I His verse carries 
no suggestion of midnight oil or furrowed 
brow; it is the natural expression of a poetic 
temperament — the literal interpretation of the 
impressions of a life spent among such for¬ 
tunate surroundings (to the dreamer) as his 
has been. ([It seems a fact worth mentioning 
in connection with the description he has given 
us of his boyhood home at Camden East that 
no less a personage and man of letters than 
Sir Gilbert Parker has a prior claim upon the 
hamlet as a birthplace. In his collection of 
verse included under the title of "The Inn of 
Gahnohway,** Mr. Tolkien has given us a 
portrayal of places and persons in that locality 
even more accurate perhaps than he has con¬ 
ceded in his biographical sketch. In this series 
of pictures of the people and characteristics 
of a rural community he has touched with 


in. 













T7be Poetical Worfys of James Kenneth Tolkien 


peculiar tenderness and felicity upon certain 
themes which one feels are very near and dear 
to him, especially in his “Florence,” “The Vet¬ 
eran Farmer” and “Baby, 9 * CHis later verse 
shows a distinct change in style and a growth 
in spirituality which he has experienced in the 
intervening years, this latter phase being notice¬ 
able in his “Noel-Tide” and “Resurrection.” “The 
Lakelet” is an exquisite gem, and in his “My 
Song ” which some consider his best effort, it 
seems that he has come very near to greatness, 
displaying rare beauty of expression and pre¬ 
senting his conception in a picturesque and 
masterful manner. COf his acrostic verse, the 
lines entitled “Take Thy Rest” are worthy the 
position he has given them. C As may be 
gathered from his writings, optimism is the 
key note of Mr. Tolkien’s life. To know him 
is to admire him for his qualities of congeniality 
and courage in the face of trying adversities, 
and one can well believe him when he says that 
“he knows in Whom he has believed.’’ CHis 
is the poetry that sustains and inspires, and 
the writer deems it an honor as well as a 
pleasure to be privileged to contribute this 
little appreciation of the artistic work of his 
brain and hand, which he has done with no 
thought of profit to himself other than the 
satisfaction of its accomplishment and the 
hope that it may bring something of his own 


IV. 









c C’ie Poetical Works of James Kenneth Tolkien 


gladness to the friends into whose hands it 

may fall. 

With thoughts of him come thoughts of moun- 
tain brooks that singing fall, 

And shady nooks, and rustling leaves, and birds 
that sweetly call, 

And words that tinkle melodies,—because he 
knows them all; 

And when the spell of song is on me and my 
mind expands 

And throbs with rhythmic waves of sentiment 
the rabble brands 

As silliness,—I think of him, because he under¬ 
stands. 


ARCH CARLISLE THOMAS 


Buffalo, N. Y., Sept. 17, 1913. 













To My Friends: 

I have created , fathered and de¬ 
veloped this little work with the love 
and pride one has for a child. The 
photographic illustrations, typograph¬ 
ical arrangement and printing are all 
the product of my own labor. If merit 
should be found herein, it is my desire, 
in presenting it, that you accept and 
regard it as an expression of my 
esteem for you. 


James Kenneth Tolkien 




My Birthplace at Napanee. 


t 


Poetical Works of James Kenneth Tolkien 







c&he Poetical Worlds of James Kenneth ^Uol^ien 


Snapshots of Early Days 

f 

RIENDS have asked me on several 
occasions why I have never 
written an autobiography. This 
question had never received a 
satisfactory answer, owing to 
the fact that I had never given 
it very serious consideration for 
the main reason, and, for a minor reason, that 1 
had always harbored the idea that my life, 
having been, in my opinion, uneventful, would 
not be interesting to others. But, after a little 
reflection, and,, incidentally, finding my memory 
drifting back to scenes of my early life, I have 
gradually lost my skepticism on that point and 
catch glimpses of little events in past days that 
interest and even please me. CfOn this occasion 
of gathering together my poetical fancies intact, 
I deem it not altogether out of place to give, in- 
troductorily, a few snapshots of little occur¬ 
rences and associations that are connected 
directly or indirectly with my verse., for 1 find, 
in reading over my work, that, in a great many 
instances, the thoughts which I had believed to 
have been the product of inspiration, when 
traced to the source of their conception, were 
nothing more than impressions imprinted on my 
memory at a time when the mind was young and 
sensitive. Cl was born in the town of Napanee, 
Canada, in the year, 1881, of a family who had 



VII. 






















Vbe Poetical Worof James Kenneth Tolkien 


not been blessed with more worldly possessions 
than a good name and household necessities, 
but, nevertheless, were happy and contented. 
CAnd here I might give, as a sidelight, a brief 
sketch of my parentage. 


COn my father’s side. I am descended from an 
old Alsace-Loraine family. Nearly two cen¬ 
turies ago two brothers, Daniel and Henry 
Tolkien, left the land of their fathers and settled 
in London, England, with a fairly good start, 
financially. Daniel chose, for his investment, 
the fur business, while Henry fancied he could 
get more notes out of the music business. Re¬ 
port has it that both made good, however, and 
today there is a piano in England bearing the 
name of Tolkien. But, we’ll stay by Daniel, as 
he is in direct line, being my great-grandfather. 
He married into an English family. His wife 
presented him with several children, one of 
whom was James Tolkien, who grew to man¬ 
hood and entered the British Navy as Surgeon. 
After many adventures on sea and land he was 
finally cast on one of the West Indies, the 
cruiser on which he had sailed having been 
totally wrecked. The natives greeted him a 
little too warmly for his liking and he did not 
altogether relish the way in which they scru¬ 
tinized him. He related afterwards that it was 
undoubtedly their intention to make a meal of 
him. Their superstition, however, was his 


VIII. 
















The Old Churchyard, Camden East. 


Poetical Works of James Kenneth Tolkien 






c&be Poetical Works of James Kenneth ^Uolkien 


safety; for, being a physician of no mean repu¬ 
tation among those of his own nation, and, with 
the experience he had acquired among sailors 
and soldiers afflicted with fevers or maladies 
peculiar to those tropical regions he was en¬ 
abled to cure many of the natives who were 
stricken at that time. Seeing the results of his 
skill and the speedy recovery of those whom 
they had believed lost, they immediately hailed 
him as a great healer and a divinity. CDr. 
Tolkien was at last picked up by a passing 
schooner and delivered once more into civiliza¬ 
tion. Soon afterwards he received his release of 
honor from the Navy and entered a detachment 
of the standing Army which was sent to Canada 
at the time of the Rebellion of *37. He was 
among those stationed at Kingston, Upper Can¬ 
ada. CTwenty miles distant lived one, Miss 
Bell, whom he chanced to meet when on a pro¬ 
fessional call. Miss Bell was of Scotch and 
Holland descent. Her mother’s family, the Van 
Valkenbergs, are traced to that portion of the 
Eastern States made famous by the Knicker¬ 
bockers. They were U. E. Loyalists and emi¬ 
grated to Canada shortly after the Revolution. 
At the termination of the Rebellion Dr. Tolkien 
and Miss Bell renewed their acquaintance, 
which resulted in his leaving the Army and 
becoming a married man at the age of thirty- 
eight. He made a home in Bath, Ont., where he 
worked up a practice as physician and surgeon. 










The Poetical Worfys of James Kenneth ^Co listen 


but afterwards moved to Sydenham, a few miles 
distant, in which village my father, Daniel 
Tolkien, was born. CMy father’s parents died 
when he was very young, and, at an early age, 
he went to live with an uncle, from whom he 
obtained his knowledge of farming, which occu¬ 
pation he followed until shortly after my birth. 

C My mother, whose maiden name was Shurtleflf, 
is a descendant on her father’s side, from an old 
English family, the original name being Shire - 
cliffe , but which has become vastly changed by 
time. They were a proud people, but I do not 
believe they were haughty, for they were of 
that English type whose pride was based on 
honor and good name, rather than station. COn 
her mother’s side we have, in the family of 
Miles, a direct descent from the Pilgrim fathers, 
and later American Revolutionists upon which 
fact my great-grandfather, Rev. Stephen Miles, 
was never inclined to keep silent. And here 
I cannot resist going briefly into his history, for 
he and his son, Elijah, were the only printers 
in the family, with the exception of myself. 
C Rev. Stephen Miles was born in Royalton, Vt., 
October 19th, 1789. He bound himself out to 
Mr. Nahum Mower, proprietor and publisher 
of The Postboy and Vermont and New Hamp¬ 
shire Federal Courier , at Windsor, Vt. In 1807 
he went with Mr. Mower to Montreal, Canada, 
and in May of that year assisted him in estab- 











“TT he Poetical Works of James Kenneth Tolkien 


lishing the Canadian Courant there. In the year 
1810 Mr. Mower made him a present of enough 
material for a printing plant, so he proceeded 
to Kingston, U. C., the journey from Montreal 
to that place then occupying twelve days, and, 
in September, issued the first newspaper printed 
in Kingston and the third in Upper Canada, 
called the Gazette, of which he became editor. 
In 1813 the two other existing printing estab¬ 
lishments in Upper Canada, one at Newark and 
the other at York, were destroyed by fire, the 
papers ceased publication, and Mr. Miles’ paper, 
the Gazette, remained the only journal pub¬ 
lished to the west of Montreal up to 1816. In 
1818 he disposed of the office and the good will 
of the paper, and after serving on one or two 
other journals, commenced in 1828 the Gazette 
and Religious Advocate, of which he continued 
editor and proprietor until 1830. He then 
undertook the management of the Canadian 
Watchman, and in the following year moved to 
Prescott, where he founded and edited the 
Grenville Gazette, the first paper published in 
that place. In 1833 he disposed of that paper, 
returning to Kingston, where, after some slight 
connection with one of the papers, he was, in 
1835, received into the Methodist Church as a 
traveling minister, the duties of which he dis¬ 
charged until he was superannuated. At this 
time he was considered the oldest living journal¬ 
ist in Canada. He was finally overtaken by old 


XI. 















'17be Poetical Worfys of James Kenneth c £To/£/en 


age and blindness, and in December, 1870, was 
borne to his last resting place. 


CAnd now, that I have concluded these concise 
remarks with reference to my ancestry, 1 leave 
it to those who read, to decide my position as 
regards nationa’ity. 1 may sing out the “Mar¬ 
seillaise, ” or th~ “Wacht am Rhein,” and still be 
patriotic, or, for a variety, chant the “Rule 
Britannia/* “The Maple Leaf Forever,” the Hol¬ 
land “Vaderland,” the Scotch “Scots Wha Hae” 
and “The Star Spangled Banner/' enjoying 
with each that inspiring enthusiasm that causes 
an electric current to vibrate in the spinal 
column that patriots, only, are capable of feel¬ 
ing. I may love all men, and sympathize with 
them in their thoughts, feelings and desires, pro¬ 
vided that such are founded on justice and good¬ 
ness to all mankind. 


CMy career in my birthplace was of very short 
duration, my people moving to Camden East 
when 1 was but two years of age. CCamden 
East was, and still is, a very small village, or, 
perhaps, hamlet would be a name more appro¬ 
priate, its most pretentious edifices consisting of 
a two-roomed schoolhouse, two churches, a gen¬ 
eral store and an inn. CFrom the time when I 
was susceptible of impression, up to the age of 
eight, my life in this little place was one short, 
sweet dream of green meadows, running brooks, 


I 















My Favorite Road in Camden Eaet, 


Poetical Works of James Kenneth Tolkien 
















c Xjhe Poetical Worlds of James Kenneth ^oll^ien 


marshland and forest, where I lived in Nature’s 
embrace and wandered alone as my young heart 
willed, or in company with my sisters, who were 
oldsr than I. It was here that the chord of 
rhythm and rhyme was sounded and the music 
thereof stored away on the recorder of my mind 
to be reproduced in later years. CThus we find 
in my early work, “The Inn of Gahnobway” 
and in the incidental verses of “Florence” and 
“The Veteran Farmer ” a f icture of the old 
place, although, at the time th:y were written I 
did not realize that such was the case, attribut¬ 
ing their production to inspiration cr imagina¬ 
tion. ([It used to be a characteristic of mine, 
at times* to choose quiet and even melancholy 
nooks in my roamings, the old churchyard 
preferably, on account of its seclusion, no doubt, 
and the assurance I felt that, within that resting- 
place of the departed, I was safe from intrusion, 
and could dream away, unmolested by any 
foreign element. C^t the age of eight, after 
my first year’s schooling in the village class¬ 
room, I bade farewell to all the old haunts in 
picturesque Camden, the birthplace of my 
younger and only brother. CMy father’s con¬ 
nection with governmental work took us to the 
city of Toronto in the spring of 1890, and thus 
commenced a new epoch in my life, to which 
change it took a long time for me to become 
accustomed. Instead of my favorite road, be¬ 
side the green banks of the winding river, there 



XIII. 


















Vbe Poetical Works of James Kenneth Tolkien 


ran the straight, harsh thoroughfare of cobble 
stone or the smooth, hard surface of asphalt, on 
which reckless vehicles, of all dimensions and 
descriptions, rattled out tunes that were for¬ 
eign, indeed, to the class of music that I en¬ 
joyed. Instead of my old, stone gristmill and 
plane mill, there loomed before my vision, 
buildings of a thousand windows with tops that 
seemed to meet the heavens. They even took 
my ancient red bridge, from which I used to 
angle, and replaced it with one of railroad 
tracks, built over a monstrous, dark, rattling 
subway, a poor substitute for the gentle, flowing 
river of my early acquaintance. And the people 
—the throng—the multitude of people—they 
also rattled. They looked rattled. Their feet 
rattled. Their tongues rattled, and, I believe 
to this day that their brains rattled. They even 
caused me to be rattled, for I nearly lost my 

way. But, enough of this. Let us pass on_ 

there is no poetry there. Suffice it to say that 1 
completed my schooling in Toronto, and caught 
an occasional ray of sunshine while on little ex¬ 
cursions of my own to quiet places, where 
nature still possessed it originality, far from 
the bungled artifice of a man-made world. 

But, as many a ray of sunshine is followed by 
a cloud, so it was in two instances, at least, in 
my life, while residing in Toronto, for there I 
lost two of my beloved sisters, Florence, the 
eldest, and Helen, the youngest, who entered 
into eternal rest at the respective ages of 


XIV. 














All That /• Left of the Old Mill. 


Poetical Works of James Kenneth Tolkien 










‘TTfee Poetical Works of James Kenneth Tolkien 


twenty-one and nineteen. My memory of them 
will always be associated with the sweetness of 
a garland of roses, and they will still live on 
with me in spirit, if not materially. Cl R the 
year 1893 I entered, as an apprentice, the print¬ 
ing office of The Faithful Witness, and for three 
years enjoyed the novelty of that high and 
exalted position and title of “printer’s devil,” 
through which 1 passed safely and without a 
sign of disfiguration, although, while in one of 
my dreamy moods, and unconscious of my sur¬ 
roundings, it was not an uncommon occurrence 
to be awakened from my reveries by the receipt 
of a boquet of no soft substance, well aimed at 
my cerebrum. In the third year of my appren¬ 
ticeship a strike occurred in that office which 
developed into a lockout, and, being in sym¬ 
pathy with the union printers, I left of my own 
accord, shortly afterwards, and went sailing, 
during the summer months, on a passenger boat 
propelling between Hamilton and Montreal. 
This offered a deviation and 1 thoroughly en¬ 
joyed the freedom found in a life of that char¬ 
acter. ([Prior to my vacation (for such 1 called 
it), business again had taken my parents to an¬ 
other place of abode; this time to Montreal, in 
which city, after I had had a sufficient amount 
of sailing, I also lived, under my father’s roof. 
I resumed my trade, on the Montreal Herald, 
until within a year of becoming a journeyman, 
when 1 left to take a position in the employ of 
the McAlister Bros. There I stayed but a short 


xv. 


















c Ubc Poetical tVorfo of James Kenneth Tolkien 


period, when I was offered a situation, by the 
Benallack Lithographing & Printing Co., at 
standard union wages. Here I completed my 
five-yeai term of apprenticeship and lost no time 
in becoming a union printer. ([The five years 
which 1 spent in Montreal was, in my opinion, 
very satisfactory. 1 enjoyed the companionship 
of many, among whom were poets, artists, 
doctors and actors, whose talent was of genuine 
merit and which had been, on more occasions 
than one, justly complimented by the leading 
periodicals of the community. 1 was connected 
with the Philotechnic institute, during my resi¬ 
dence there, and derived much benefit from it, 
not only from a technological standpoint, but 
in the opportunities afforded by the companion¬ 
ship of men with minds as great as theirs were 
reputed to be. But from the many acquaint¬ 
ances I selected just a few with whom I felt 1 
could exchange confidences. Jean Eugene Mar- 
souin, a little French poet, was my constant 
companion in the literary element. It is with 
extreme pleasure I recall that little bundle of 
nerves. How, with his gestures during exciting 
arguments, he would deliver his explosions. He 
was real—every atom of his being—honest; and 
a heart—one would wonder how so petite a 
body could contain so large a heart. He was 
imaginative, witty, inventive, and his power of 
description entertaining as it was odd. There 
was not a nook or corner of merit on Mount 
Royal that he and I did not find. We scoured 


XVI. 













Where I Used to Angle. 


Poetical Works of James Kenneth Tolkien 











c C“Ae Poetical Worlds of James Kenneth ^ol^ien 


the hills of Cote de Neiges, Westmount and the 
sublime valley in which reposed the ruins of 
Ville Marie. We traversed both roads to La- 
chine, feeding our eyes on ancient landmarks, 
each offering material for historical discussion. 
Yes, we took in everything of any account on 
the island—just we two—back there in those 
good old days. Cl must also mention four others 
who were no less my confreres—W. J. Graham, 
Everett Wood, Avery Argue (and he could 
argue) and Benton Twigley, another poet of 
rare ability. These four made up my regular 
company at home and I look back on their visits 
as an enjoyable dream that tarried only a mo¬ 
ment, then passed on. Cln the year 1904 I left 
the land of my birth and came to make my 
future home on American soil. I landed in 
Rochester, N. Y., and soon procured a position 
with Vredenberg Co. In this office 1 worked 
until I was politely discharged, for being too 
closely connected, I believe, with the union. But 
that didn’t bother me in the least, for in three 
days’ time I was anchored on The Post Express, 
where I enjoyed prosperity until I walked out 
with the boys in the eight-hour strike. The first 
two years of this strike I enjoyed no less than 
the happiest moments of my life. In the first 
six months of its duration I entered into a matri¬ 
monial compact with my life-mate, and we en¬ 
joyed together the many months of recreation 
which followed. Cln the meantime my parents 


XVII. 










^Cbe Poetical Worlds of James Kenneth Tolkien 


immigrated to the United States, leaving my 
trail at Rochester, N. Y., and choosing the 
windy city of Buffalo in which to pitch their tent. 
After the strike had become more or less settled 
throughout the country, my wife and I left my 
aunt’s hospitality in Rochester and made a 
whirlwind trip to the Middle West, where I 
visited my old friend, W. J. Graham, to whom I 
had become attached in the old days on the 
Montreal Herald y in which office we had worked 
together. While in Dubuque, Iowa, I worked 
on the Telegraph-Herald and spent leisure mo¬ 
ments with my camera, taking pictures of that 
grand scenery along the Mississippi. ([Just pre¬ 
vious to the holidays at Christmas we returned 
East, stopped off at Buffalo, in which city we 
finally decided to make our home. I commenced 
to “sub” on The Evening Times , with which 
paper 1 have been connected ever since. <[I 
have had my share of trouble and sickness, but 
the happiness within me causes such trivial 
trials to vanish as vapor. Some have said to 
me, “the Devil certainly has it in for you,” but 
I tell them, not so, for 1 accept nothing from 
that Prince of Evil. I take all the sickness, the 
little trials, the sorrows, as well as the health, 
the good fortune and the joys, and I take them 
gladly, from none other than my Father who is 
in Heaven, for I know in Whom I have believed. 

JAMES KENNETH TOLKIEN. 


XVIII. 



















And the love I enjoy came to me when 
a boy, 

Among the hills of old ; 

In all nature, supreme, in the song of 
the stream, 

The story of love was told. 


• Poetical Works of James Kenneth Tolkien 




'TT/)c Poetical Works of James Kenneth Tolkien 


MOTHER 


To whom I lovingly inscribe the efforts of mine own pen 

contained in this volume. 


Oh! whence came the thought, or the theme 
that was wrought 
Into lines of poesy, 

And the words that grew into phrases anew , 
To clothe that thought for me? 

Whence echoed the sound of the rhythm l 
found — 

The strain of melody, 

And my love for men, blended there with 
my pen 

In the rhyme that came to me? 

The thought and the rhyme, and the rhythm 
and time 

My mother did impart, 

For she breathed them all there as I lay in 
her care 

Beside her loving heart. 

And the music I own, with the sweetest of tone — 

I caught the strain, you see, 

In my snug little nest on my fond mother’s * 
breast — 

She crooned it soft to me. 

And the love I enjoy came to me when a boy, 
Among the hills of old; 

In all nature, supreme y in the song of the 
stream, 

The stcry of love was told; 

And my mother told how (I remember it now), 
While lisping at her knee, 

It was sent from above, on the wings of a dove, 
My Father gave it me. 


Page l 














































’ 































Early Rhyme 












'Gbe Poetical Works of James Kenneth 'Colkien 


SPRING 

The fir at poem - written at the age of nine. 

(Published by requeet) 

Spring is the sweetest time of the year, 
When the little birds are full of cheer, 
When the grass is green, 

And flowers are seen 
In the grand old wood 
In our neighborhood. 


Page !t 























. 





















A long, hoof -trodden road—a lonesome 
road, 

Where here and there would spring a 
small abode. 




. Poetical Works of James Kenneth Tolkien 





^Uhe Poetical Worlds of James Kenneth Tolkien 


The Inn of Gahnobway 

DRAMATIS PERSON/E 

Jake Saunders, the innkeeper. Ned Chelcy, a peddler. 
Esther, his wife. Ben Stelbum, o sawyer. 

Erich Martz, a German poet. Uncle Anson, a patriarch. 
Bill Conley, a mighty hunter. 


I 

THE ROAD TO GAHNOBWAY 

A long, hoof-trodden road—a lonesome road, 
Where here and there would spring a small 
abode 

To catch the glance of some wayfarer’s eye, 
Ere quite the sun had left the western sky. 
Full well it might be termed a dismal way, 
Cut through a forest of the North, they say, 
Nigh fifty years ago, or thereabout, 

Before the world had found its presence out. 

II 

GAHNOBWAY 

Upon a little clearing of the wood, 

The rustic hamlet of Gahnobway stood— 

A cosy-looking vill of common ways, 

Peculiar to those Pioneer days. 


Page 5 


















c ETAc Poetical Worbs of James Kenneth c Coll(ien 


An old log school-house rested on the hill, 

A little distance from the planing mill, 

Near which the winding river made its course, 
To work the wheel, supply the cow and horse. 
But, best of all—now boys of books and dreams, 
You cranks and maniacs of all extremes. 

You preachers, students, politicians, all, 

Think honestly of what your minds would call 
A perfect rendezvous, and you'll agree 
This village inn was, with all certainty, 

It was no loafers' home nor drunkards' bar— 
Unlike saloons of modem days, by far— 

A home of intellects, a meeting place, 

Where welcome reached to men of any race. 
It nestled just beyond a gloomy bend, 

And, nightly, shone a lantern to extend 
An invitation to the coach, and hail 
With eagerness, the coming of the mail. 

Ill 

% 

THE TRAVELERS 

'Twas fifty years ago (as said before) 

When immigrants were flocking, by the score, 
In this good land of ours, to earn their bread, 
And find a pillow for an honest head. 

Some chopped the cedars of the eastern shores; 
Some thanked the country for their harvest 
stores. 

While others of a roving turn of mind, 

Would face the missiles of the winter wind, 

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To seek the wayside thresholds' quietude, 

Free from the boist’rous rabble and the rude, 
Where tongues of fire reflected their delight, 
And conversation wore away the night. 

IV 

THE INN KEEPER 

Ye-s—summertime and all its charms had gone; 
The curtain of November had been drawn; 
The candles flickered through the window 
panes, 

And from the cottages came joyous strains 
To tempt the toilers from the autumn blast, 
And join the children at the night’s repast. 
Jake Saunders slapped his knee with keen de¬ 
light, 

And hastened to arrange the old room right, 
That rats and dust had wantonly abused, 
Being, through summer, very little used. 

He dusted all the frames upon the wall, 

And corners, where the eyes were sure to fall; 
And, like the barley on a neighbor’s farm, 
The cobwebs fell beneath Jake’s sturdy arm. 
He set old books upon the mantle-shelf, 

That had been prized by all, as by himself; 
And, after all looked pleasing to the eye, 

He fetched some logs of maple, old and dry, 
To welcome round the hearth, the men, at e’en, 
Like some great lord within his grand demesne. 


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He laughed aloud, and then he laughed again, 
For well he liked the gathering of men; 

And, striking from his flint a spark or two, 
Lighted the pile, then in a circle drew 
The chairs around, to form a palisade 
Against all cares the outer world had made. 
At last he sat him down upon a chair, 

To watch the sparks ascending in the air, 
And whistled to his wife a tune of old, 

With variations sweet and manifold. 

“Ha! Ha!” he laughed, “the boys will soon be 
here, 

And we’re prepared to give ’em hearty cheer; 
I saw old Stelbum at the mill today— 

He’s cornin’ up to hear what all will say, 

And Chelcy, he’ll be back from Winderpower 
In just an hour from now—no, half an hour— 
My, my! how time can hop along—I thought 
’Twas only half-past seven, but, it’s not 
So far from eight o’clock—I’ll be about, 

To get the glasses and the wine, without, 

And, Esther, you will get the tots to bed, 
And stamp my kisses on each little head.” 

V 

THE LIGHTING OF THE PIPES 

Unsteady tallow-lights, the shadowed door, 
The rats at “hide and seek” beneath the floor, 
A dreary window, its divided cloak, 

A glowing coal, a rising cloud of smoke, 


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The ring of glasses, and a word or two, 

A greeting, “How’d you pass the summer 
through, ” 

A mellow murmur as they lightly chat, 

Too well confirm for us what they are at. 


VI 

NED CHELCY 

Ned Chelcy has arrived with spirits high, 
And passed his good opinion on the sky; 

He has, already, told about his trip 
Far up the country road, without a slip, 

Or contradiction, or a sudden stop— 

For, at good yarns Ned always was on top. 

He was a pedler of fine silks and thread, 

Rich laces, velvets, of dark blue and red, 
Deep green and purple, nearly every shade 
That factories of finery ever made. 

He was a Yankee from the State of Maine, 
Of medium build, dressed nobby, neat and plain, 
Fastidious in the combing of his hair, 

Low collars were the only kind he’d wear; 
His shoes were always shined and laced just so, 
No matter where his work called him to go; 
He liked his ease when nought was on his mind, 
When he could talk of days he’d left behind, 
Adventures he had had, and sights he’d seen, 
Since he was but a lad of seventeen. 


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VII 

BEN STELBURN 

Old Stelburn, too, has come down from the mill; 
A sawyer, he, with great mechanic skill, 
Advanced in years, but jolly for his days, 
Retaining many of his youthful ways. 

In business few around could teach him ought, 
For, after leaving school, himself he’d taught; 
He knew hard fractions, compound interest and 
Brain-puzzling problems none could under¬ 
stand, 

Save Chelcy, and the master at the school, 
Who worked at figures by a modem rule. 

The cottagers and farmers liked him well, 

For reasons they, themselves, could hardly tell. 
He liked to see the children play around 
His mill, or in the little school-house ground. 
He knew good stories for both young and old, 
Which, in the village, he had often told; 

And that’s the reason he has come tonight, 

To sit within, where songs and tales invite. 

VIII 

BILL CONLEY 

The hunter Conley has returned with pride, 
With well-filled bag and rabbits at his side, 
Which he, when next old Sol has shown his face, 
Will hang within the grocer’s market-place. 


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No one had e’er expected him so soon 
As the first quarter of November’s moon. 

A rough-and-ready man was Bill at best, 
Who’d give and take a joke or flighty jest. 
He knew the tracks of caribou and moose, 

He knew the signals for the redmen’s use, 
Their traps, their ways of following a trail 
By day or night, in quiet or in gale. 

He liked to steal away in forest wild, 

That once on Indian warriors had smiled 
With game abundant and good fighting space, 
And shelter from a large opposing race. 

He liked the redman for his nature odd; 

Who did, like him, not care to plough the sod; 
But, rather take what was already there, 
Without unnceded work and extra care. 

In old Gahnobway he had always staid, 

While tempest voiced the winter’s serenade. 

IX 

ERICH MARTZ 

The German poet, Erich Martz, has come, 
Bright, philosophical and humorsome, 

A smiling little man, quite young in years, 
With curls of silver hair about his ears. 

Within his father’s farmhouse, up the stream, 
His leisure moments offered time to dream; 
For there he had his corner and his books, 
That mirrored ages in their ragged looks; 


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True, constant use had worn their clothing out, 
And many of their pages put to rout. 

Great masters he had there upon the shelf, 

To answer things he didn’t know himself, 

In Latin, English and his native text, 

O’er which he’d often bent and been perplexed. 
All folks around thought his opinion good, 
And gathered near him every time they could, 
To hear the words he breathed with lowered 
voice, 

That soothed their souls, and made their hearts 
rejoice. 

His meaning eye well emphasized his speech, 
And planted firm each lesson he would teach; 
And, as he listens to the maple crack 
On Saunders’ hearth, and smokes the winter 
back, 

A pleasant smile upon it he bestows, 

And sings the boys a little song he knows: 

X 

ERICH SINGS—WHO KNOCKS? 

“O, winds of winter, blow, 

Ye heralds of the snow; 

But what care we? 

From yonder prairie vast, 

From thy nor’wester blast, 

Our hearts are free. 


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O, winds of winter, blow 
Thy breath is keen we know; 

But hold thy might 
That dooms the hermit’s door, 
Or trav’lers on the moor 
Or mountain height. 


O, winds”— 

“Hush! there’s a rap, a feeble, ancient rap— 
Did you not hear it? like the gentle tap 
Of some departed one we used to know, 
Recalling visits of the long ago.” 

While Erich still was speaking, in there peered 
A kind old face with long and hoary beard; 
For Saunders, who had answered to his call, 
Had bade him enter from the dusky hall, 
And join their fellowship with words and song, 
And tell how he had chanced to pass along. 
He entered, paused, and met their friendly eyes 
That welcomed him with gladness and surprise; 
Then, up spake Erich, with extended hand, 

“ ’Tis Uncle Anson from the northern land— 
Sit down, good father, Jake brings you some 
wine 

To drink with us that health be ours and thine.” 
He took the glass and made a little speech, 
With wishes for prosperity of each 
All through their earthly lives, and then 
wished he 

An endless peace throughout eternity. 


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c&be Poetical Wor fa of James Kenneth 'Colkien 


Young Erich clapped; old Stelburn said, “Hear! 
hear!” 

Ned Chelcy stretched his mouth from ear to ear; 
Bill Conley knocked the ashes from his pipe, 
Drew forth a broad red handkerchief to wipe 
The perspixation from his honest brow, 

Then coolly said, “Them’s good words, we’ll 
allow.” 


XI 

UNCLE ANSON 

A grand Canadian patriarch was he; 

The oldest known from Kingston to the sea; 
He knew the history of our own clime, 

From early days down to the present time; • 
And it was whispered in the vills around 
He was a prophet and that he had found 
Out many signs and secrets of the stars 
And planets, and of Mercury and Mars. 
Good qualities he had, and bad ones, too— 
For human nature is the same all through— 
There never lived a man on earth who had 
Not in his nature points both good and bad. 
He understood the language of the trees 
And flowers, and their many mysteries; 

And often he would talk, around the cots, 
About the goblins, to the little tots, 

And gladly answer questions they would ask, 
Though taking chapters to complete the task. 


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Then other things he told to older folk, 

That he thought true and others deemed a 
joke— 

The many marvelous, hair’s breadth escapes 
He had, along with all his boyish scrapes. 

It was believed by all he did relate 
These tales to boys at quite an early date, 

For theirs and his amusement, and had placed 
Himself as here, and, as quickly raced 
His many years he really thought all true, 
And spoke with clearest conscience that he 
knew. 

But, owing to his age, he would forget 
And contradict himself quite often, yet, 

He always found the words to set him free 
From cross-examination; he’d agree, 

That, over-rating words nigh always lend 
A chance for doubts of stories in the end. 

XII 

ANSON’S FIRST TALE 
Chelcy — 

Well, boys, if all the demonstration’s done, 
Come, let us now continue with the fun. 

Let’s see- — oh, no—you haven’t told us how 
You spent the past year, Uncle—tell us now. 

Anson — 

I do not think there’s very much to tell, 
Excepting that my health keeps fairly well, 


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And Aunt Maria finished with the quilt, 

And that the bam, Jim started, now is built— 
That calls to mind a little incident 
That once occurred to me, when 1 was sent 
Long, long ago, to help to build a shed 
For Farmer Wilkes (the old man now is dead). 
Well—off I went at quite an early hour, 

To give me time to take my morning tour; 
For, I was fond of nature in my youth, 
Because, in it I saw the source of truth. 

I reached Wilkes’ farm in due time to begin 
To dig the holes to put the scantlin’s in; 

All went on well; the shed was quickly made, 
And, after that, the cedar floor we laid— 

Erich— 

And did you make it all within a day? 

Anson — 

Why yes, my boy, just thirteen farm-hands— 
yea— 

Full fifteen (for ’twas harvest time, you know), 
All did their share, and that was years ago, 
When we were young and hardy, and could 
stand 

A little extra labor of the hand. 

So—when the shed was finished, home we went, 
Quite tickled at our great accomplishment. 

1 had just reached my father’s cattle-lane 
When thunder sounded the approach of rain. 
All through the night the lightning leapt the sky, 
And, in the floods, 1 heard a robin cry_ 


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Erich — 

A robin out in such a night as then? 

Come, Uncle, stop a while and think again. 

Anson — 

Well— if it weren’t a robin, ’twas a bird, 

Or hawk that, 1 am sure, I’d often heard. 

Just then 1 went to sleep and didn’t know 
A thing, until 1 heard the rooster crow; 

All signs of storm had gone; twas bright and 
fine; 

I started out with hooks and fishing-line— 

I had to pass Wilkes’ farm, to reach the brook; 
And, as I passed, 1 chanced to take a look 
Up at the shed we built the day before; 

And there 1 stood, dumbfounded to be sure; 
The cedar that we used, had proven green, 
And through that awful rainstorm it had been; 
And it had taken root and grown, in height, 
Ten feet, as true as 1 sit here tonight. 

? f t f » ! _ 

A gasp for breath! a sigh! and all was still; 
Bill Conley reaHy looked extremely ill; 

Ned Chelcy grew quite restless sitting there, 
And roused up Stelbum, who slept in his chair; 
(’Twas true he had been sleeping all the time 
That Anson was reciting of his prime.) 

The poet tried his best to hold belief 
In Anson’s tale to give his mind relief, 

And only said that truth was surely strange, 
And he’d prefer some fiction for a change. 


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Jake Saunders thought it quite a proper thing 
To pass the wine and hear somebody sing. 
So, voluntarily, Ned cleared his throat 
To give to all a pleasing vocal note: 

XIII 

THE GALLOPING HORSE 

“My galloper galloped me over the mead; 
There never was galloper like my steed; 
O’er hills and in valleys, on mountain and crag, 
When ‘flying’ the bandit or hunting the stag, 
Away we would fly, 

My noble and I; 

No stone in the way, 

Would induce him to stay, 

My right noble galloping, 
galloping gray.” 

Chelcy (after a slight glance at Anson )— 

If you’ll have no objections, boys, I’ll tell 
A little tale that I remember well. 

It happened just a few short years ago, 

Up on the main road that you surely know. 

A chorus of acquiescence. 

XIV 

THE BENIGHTED WOMAN 

“As near as I can rightly call to mind, 

The Indian town, Lah-Moh, I’d left behind; 


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The night was fast approaching—dark, indeed, 
And weary were the haunches of my steed; 
But, comforting y I bade him hurry on, 

To reach our resting-post at Binnington. 

That day had been a busy day for me— 

The best in all my peddling history; 

My purse was filled, my merchandise was sold— 
All that my straps and leathern bags would 
hold. 

My noble gray was trotting steadily, 

With ears thrown back to hear me readily; 
And as I hummed a tune to ease my nerves, 
He guided me around the broken curves. 

The rain began to fall, quite chill and raw; 

A night of nasty weather I foresaw. 

I buttoned coat and turned my collar high, 
Pulled down my hat rim to protect the eye, 
Then wrapped a woolen blanket round my waist 
And legs quite cosy, after which I faced 
The coming storm with all the courage due, 
But wished that Binnington would pop in view. 
On came the rain, and blacker grew the night, 
When, just ahead a figure caught my sight; 

I looked more closely—not quite certain yet— 
It couldn’t be a wcman in the wet; 

It couldn’t be a man so far away; 

Nor could it be a child who’d gone astray; 

But as I came upon it, in the dark, 

It moved; I thought it best to make remark. 
So—leaning o’er my seat, I cried, ‘Hello! 
Benighted, eh! where do you wish to go?’ 


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It was a woman, judging from the dress, 

But, from the voice, ’twould have been hard to 
guess; 

For such a voice, so husky, strange and wierd, 
That answered me, old Nick, himself, I feared 
Was playing witchcraft through a risen soul. 
She gained the seat. Again the wheels did roll. 
She told me that her home was five miles hence, 
But after that she showed indifference 
Towards anything 1 said, or chose to ask, 

Or what I told about my daily task. 

In such short sentences she answered me, 

As if each word of hers was worth my three. 

And then I ceased to speak; nought could we 
hear, 

But rain, that fell into the puddles near, 

The steady trot of Blenholm and the sound 

The wheels made on the rough and stony 
ground. 

The post at Binnington was far away— 

A good eight miles, I’d venture now to say, 

The keen suspense began to work on me; 

I glanced aside to see what she could see— 

Beneath a black veil gleamed two fiery eyes; 

A cold sweat on my face began to rise. 

I took all in; now firmly I believed 

That, through my good turn, I had been de¬ 
ceived. 

That face was coarse and not a woman’s face, 
Or else a man had stolen in her place. 

Quick as a flash, the fact occurred to me, 

It was a robber bent on robbery. 


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No doubt he had been loitering all day, 

And thought that I’d be sure to pass that way 
With generous purse, and at a nightly hour, 
Without a pistol, and within his power. 

1 knew 1 had scant time to meditate; 

Unless right quick to act ’twould be too late. 
So, clumsily, my whip I chanced to drop; 

I feigned an oath—hauled in as quick as pop. 
1 knew the whip would be some yards behind, 
And asked my guest if she would be so kind 
As get it—that my horse would surely bound t 
If but he knew my hand was not around. 
Quite unsuspicious he took in my bait, 

By stepping down at quite a lively gait. 

1 waited till he reached the whip and stopped, 
Then to my gray a word I softly dropped. 

He knew too well what that light signal meant; 
Besides, he, too, already smelt the scent 
Of something wrong; for, 1 had never yet 
Reined in at that strange spot, nor even let 
His steady pace but slacken on the road, 
Unless I had to purchase or unload. 

Away! The mocking rattling of the wheels 
Too well told madam how a hunter feels 
When he is baffled by the hunted game, 

And, unsuccessful, has to meet his dame. 
Away! 1 knew not, neither could 1 see; 

But Blenholm knew; that was enough for me; 
And hardly was an hour three-quarters done, 
When 1 could see the light at Binnington. 


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On, on we dashed—the goal was now in sight; 
And, rumbling on, right well it did invite; 
Until, at last, the hostelry we gained, 

Where I and Blenholm all that night remained.” 

Ned Chelcy’s tale with honors was received; 
And, doubtless, was by all of them believed; 
And Anson thought it safe to venture forth 
With something he experienced in the North. 

Anson — 

Ned’s story has recalled another tale, 

Of how I once went through an autumn gale. 

Erich — 

Was this another time you went to fish, 

When wondrous things were wrought to suit 
your wish? 

Anson (with a side glance )— 

No, no, this is no fish tale, though quite strange, 
Nor did my mind, or any man’s, arrange. 


XV 

ANSON’S SECOND TALE 

4 1 was no older then than Ned is now; 
And, this day, 1 had gone to sell a cow 
To some old widow up the river road; 

1 also took with me a heavy load 
Of turnips and potatoes for her use, 
Together with some eggs to set a goose. 


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’Twas evening ere I turned my horse’s head 
For home, and, I can tell you, fast he sped; 
Yet, not a half way had we gained before 
A storm came up and rain began to pour. 
Loud burst the thunder, like a mighty drum, 
That almost deafened ear and struck me dumb; 
But, bad as this was, with its peals that rolled, 
The lightning was still worse, a hundred fold. 
Like many golden chains it streaked the sky, 
And, 1 knew well, ’twas getting quite near by. 
On dashed my horse, o’er stone and into loam, 
As eager as myself to gain my home. 

Another peal of thunder shook the air; 
Another streak of lightning shot its flare; 

But, this time, it meant harm to something, sure, 
And 1 felt not that 1 was well secure. 

Then, of a sudden, when it flashed again, 
Some hard thing in my coat could not restrain 
From flopping like a sparrow in a hat. 

You’ll not believe me when I tell you that 
It was my jack-knife that the lightning struck; 
And, for a time, 1 couldn’t find the pluck 
To get me rid of that steel knife of mine, 

Like some wee imp. possessed with bad design. 
But, as it still kept on incessantly, 

A bright thought very soon was flashed to me. 
1 knew the cloth would save me should it stay; 
But still I’d rather throw the thing away. 

So, opening my pocket good and wide, 

Into the road I let it quickly slide. 


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Ube Poetical Wor fa of fames Kenneth ^olfaen 


And then, the lightning left the plagued knife, 
And caught on to my tire and clung for life; 
And, all the way, that brilliant wheel of light 
Did brighten up the darkness of the night, 
Till, finally, 1 pulled up at the farm, 

Well pleased I had escaped from any harm.” 

Saunders — 

Here, Uncle, you had better have some wine; 
Your strange, hair-standing tale was simply fine. 

All drank again, and talked a little while 
Of many things, and Jake again did pile 
Some logs to give new life unto the fire, 

And poked it up to suit his own desire. 

And after some had filled their pipes anew, 
They all sat waiting for a treat in view. 

It was a story Erich had prepared 
In his own rhyme, which was, by all, declared, 
According to the title, quite the thing 
To narrate to a village gathering. 

XVI 

THE VETERAN FARMER 

“In a small and scattered village at the east of 
old Mount Royal, 

A small, ivy-covered home may still be seen; 

Where a ragged path ran from the stream for 
men of honest toil, 

To the sheep-fold and the pasture o’er the 
green. 


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Day had sallied, in September, for the sun had 
gone its way, 

And its crimson-tinted clouds adorned the 
sky, 

When an aged, weary toiler, with his simple 
evening lay, 

Slowly marked his homeward passage 
through the rye. 


One more day’s hard work was over, for the 
swallows were at rest, 

And the rooks’ ‘good-night’ was heard high 
in the air, 

To a croaking frog, coquetting with a cricket 
in its nest, 

And the scudding shadow of a hedge-hog 
there. 


Oh! how glad they made the farmer, those sweet 
minstrels of the night; 

How they made his age seem younger for the 
time; 

How he listened to the chorus—to the strain of 
their delight, 

That recalled so many pleasures of his prime! 


For he was a veteran farmer; long had he been 
toiling there; 

Many a day had seen him furrowing the 
ground, 

When from slumber it awakened, and, by his 
untiring care, 

Yielded rich and goodly harvest all around. 


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* 


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Forty years back had he come there, in the 
spring-time, young and gay, 

When so sweetly blew the austral breezes in; 

And he met a little damsel not so very far away, 
Who stole all his heart and whom he wished 
to win. 

In the morning, while at ploughing, once he 
watched her graceful trip 
In the distant meadow on her father’s farm, 

Where she came to watch the lambs feed, with 
a smile upon her lip, 

And a little hickory basket on her arm. 

And, at noonday, once he tarried, shouldering 
his fork and rake, 

Just to watch her give the ‘bossy* cows 
their salt, 

When she pushed some ‘mooly* gently by, that 
boldly tried to take 

Her own pet Jersey’s meal that she had 
brought. 

* * * 

One year later, just at even, walked two lovers 
down the lane; 

Both were dreaming, neither finding aught 
to say, 

While they heard the old St. Lawrence playing 
its sweet pebble strain 
As it journeyed on its everlasting way. 

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And he met a little dameel not 00 very 
far away. 


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^jbc Poetical IVorfa of James Kenneth Tolkien 


Sweet and bashful was the maiden, hardly in 
her sixteenth year, 

With a simple faith that thought all souls 
were true, 

And her voice was strong with courage, for her 
nature was sincere, 

And the art of coquetry she never knew. 

That was why the farmer loved that little jewel 
he had found, 

For he knew the world, its vanities, decay; 

And he thought it all a blessing that her pres¬ 
ence reigned around, 

Giving light to gloom and shadows of the day. 

O, how often, through that summer on the log 
fence they had sat, 

Glad enough when all their daily work was 
o’er; 

Where no one could hear their gossip, to each 
other they could chat 

Over happy hours enjoyed in days before. 


All the world seemed full of blessings, saddened 
hours could never be; 

To their minds it seemed that no ill could 
befall; 

But there was a cloud arising where their eyes 
could never see. 

Whispering that trouble is the lot of all. 


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Autumn came with chilling evens; winds re¬ 
echoed through the eves; 

Damp became the ground; unwelcome came 
the frost; 

Melancholy looked the maple, robed in all her 
yellow leaves, 

Wailing, ‘One more summer-time is gone and 
lost!’ 


’Twas upon an autumn even when a maiden 
tripped along, 

With a home-made shawl thrown lightly o’er 
her head; 

With her eyes turned towards her lover’s home, 
she sang her sweetest song 

To the murmurs of the river eastward led. 


But the wind knew nought of pity for the charge 
within its care, 

For it had too often nipped the autumn flower, 

Chased away the high-crowned blue jay, left the 
meadows brown and bare, 

And robbed all the morning-glories from the 
bower. 


Night passed; morning, noon and even followed 
on into the week, 

When the Lord of Heaven whispered. 4 ’Tis 
thy time;’ 

All the summer roses faded from an uncom¬ 
plaining cheek, 

And a soul is resting in a Land sublime. 

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•Aie pushed tome "mooly” gently by. 


Poetical Work* of James Kenneth Tolinen 




*&he Poetical Worlds of James Kenneth c Colkien 


Down the old lane, sadly, lonely, walked the 
lover slowly by; 

For a heavy-laden heart encumbered him; 

Something pressed upon his spirit, causing him 
to heave a sigh, 

As he watched her cottage in the twilight 
dim. 


On his bended knee, the lover, with his hat 
within his hand, 

And a fc».ce of keen despair,, gazed at the 
ground, 

Thinking of his bitter future—thinking of the 
other Land 

Which he knew his fair companion’s soul 
had found. 


Then his large eyes opened widely; his Creator 
did he face, 

And his good, unselfish heart was reconciled; 

And, still looking towards the heavens of that 
melancholy place, 

This was all he said unto the spirit child: 


‘Sleep, fair one—I’ll not disturb thee, though 
my poor old heart is sore; 

Sleep and rest, and 1 will go to thee some 
day, 

When my work on earth is finished and the 
weariness is o’er, 

When the darkness of my path has gone 
for ay.’ 


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Forty winters, forty summers, forty wrinkles 
on his brow, 

Forty years of melancholy dimmed his sight; 

Now he was a veteran farmer, trudging on, old, 
bent and slow, 

Through his field of rye this gentle autumn 
night. 


He had dwelt alone those many years, com¬ 
panions wished he none; 

He preferred to face his weary life alone; 

He had lost that he had wished to have when 
life had just begun, 

And had nothing gained that he could call 
his own. 


Though he had the greatest harvest that was 
ever wont to grow, 

It was but a pleasure that would pass away, 

With the promise of more labor, and full many 
seeds to sow 

For the next year’s crop, when spring would 
bring the day. 


But his days were nearly over; year by year 
he’d counted time, 

As he’d watched each sun sink down behind 
the hill; 

And he wished that, on the morrow, he could 
reach the other Clime, 

Where a throbbing heart is calmed and mind 
is still. 


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Over in the little churchyard, just beneath a 
shady tree, 

Where the warbled sweet music floats 
abroad, 

Lies at rest the veteran farmer, free from life’s 
monotony, 

And his soul is in the Paradise of God.” 

All eyes looked down when Erich ceased to 
speak, 

Each noticing a tear upon his cheek, 

The tremor of his voice, and other signs 
That showed his heart and soul were in his lines. 
And quietly they sat, without a word, 

No doubt,, each thinking of what he had heard, 

When, from the stairway sounded, sweet and 
low, 

A mother’s voice that set their hearts aglow, 
As, with her lullaby, she crooned to sleep 
The babe she fondled in her loving keep. 
Then, once again, the wraith of silence came, 
And turned their faces towards the maple’s 
flame. 

Long minutes passed; the old clock ticked 
away, 

And no one seemed to know just what to say. 
Old Stelburn touched Ned Chelcy on the arm, 
And asked him what had Erich found to charm. 
All eyes around were turned on Erich now, 
Who sat with pleasure dancing on his brow, 
Quite evidently to all others blind. 

For this is what was running through his mind: 


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XVII 

BABY 

“Cuddled on a mother’s breast, 

Deep in sleep and peaceful rest, 

In a safe and loving care— 

Nought can ever harm it there, 

This is where the baby lives. 

This is where the baby lives— 
Where the breath of Heaven gives 
Innocence and purity, 

Mind of curiosity, 

And a little smile of love 
To the stars that shine above, 

While they whisper in its ear, 

‘There is room for baby here; 

Only come and play with us 
As the wind of Heaven does; 

We will give thee half the moon 
For that little prattle tune.’ 

Where the silver moon is large, 
Cradled on the^ heavens’ marge; 

This is where the baby lives. 

This is where the baby dwells— 

In the land of fairy-bells, 

Where the goblins grin and lurch, 
Straddled on a fairy perch, 

Dressed in blue, and red, and green, 
(Finer sight was never seen) 

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Where the fairy maidens come, 

When the goblins beat the drum, 
Pumpkin, hollow, yellow, bright, 

Calling to the dance of night, 

To the ring of fairy-bells; 

This is where the baby dwells. 

This is where the baby dwells 
When the day has rung its knells— 
Back to mother’s loving breast 
For another night of rest, 

Back to Dreamland’s solid bliss, 

Where the angels come to kiss, 

Tripping down the golden stair, 
Seemingly from everywhere; 

Rosy cheeks and lips as sweet, 

Nimble dancers, wings as fleet, 

Fairer hair could never be, 

Eyes of gladdest brilliancy, 

Voices of the skylarks’ hearts, 

Chorusing a thousand parts, 

Hushing all the lily-bells, 

‘ In the land where baby dwells.” 

Stelburn — 

Hey! Erich, wake you up; we’re waiting here 
To get the best attention of your ear; 

Our good, kind uncle has another “string” 
To tell us of a curious happening. 

Myself — 

Ah! Stelburn, if you could have known the pang 
You caused by heralding the rude harangue, 


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To wake up Erich from his dream of mirth 
And bring him back to Anson and to earth; 
But since the deed is done, nought can I do, 
But bear with Erich, there, and harken too. 

XVIII 

ANSON’S THIRD TALE 

“Twas thirty years ago—one summer’s day, 

I drove from Brail (about ten miles away) 

A load, I’d say, of fifty logs, or more, 

That I had felled for Birks to build his store. 
O, a fine team I had, you’ll all agree, 

To haul that load with such agility. 

Well—very slowly was our progress made, 

By several break-downs on the road delayed; 
But just before the hour of one drew nigh, 
The old red bridge caught sight of my supply; 
And if it could have spoken, I presume 
It would have said, ‘To cross will be your doom.* 
I then hauled in—stepped down to ascertain 
Its strength and wear, and just about the strain 
’Twould safely stand, put at its greatest test; 

It was too weak I should have surely guessed. 
Now, what was I to do? For there I stood, 
Not knowing how to cross that rotten wood; 
But Providence did always give ideas 
To me, just in the time of need, as free as 
That inspiration comes to Martz’s mind, 

Who writes his lines and changes with the wind. 


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Accordingly, right down the bank 1 went 
Into the river swift, and confident 
That 1 could hold the bridge sufficiently 
Upon my shoulder, till my load was free 
And safely landed on the other side; 

This, I knew, could be worked if but 'twere 
tried. 

So, wading to the center of the stream, 

1 put my shoulder ’neath the middle beam; 
Then cried, 'Get up!' to both my horses there, 
That soon obeyed by moving on with care. 

They reached a quarter-way—the bridge it 
sank; 

1 wished that I had staid upon the bank. 

A half-way gained, and further did it sink; 
What next would happen 1 could only think. 

Three-quarters gained; 1 breathed more freely 
now, 

And pressed as hard as muscle would allow, 
Until at last my team did cross and stop, 

And waited for their human underprop. 

And now, what think you? When I tried to 
wade, 

1 found that I had sunk to shoulder-blade— 
Almost—in mud, and ere I could get free, 

I had to struggle with dexterity.” 

Saunders — 

But, Anson, underneath that bridge I've been, 
And mud—no, not an atom have I seen— 

In fact, 'tis all flat rock, as smooth as glass; 
That spot's just where I used to fish for bass. 


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Anson — 

Well, well, so I’ll admit, but you must know 
Things change; this happened thirty years ago, 
When all was mud as far as Elhn Glen; 

The stream has washed it all away since then. 
And now, Ben Stelburn, let us hear your tongue 
At some good tale that hasn’t yet been “strung.” 

XIX 

STELBURN’S TALE 

“It was in Elhn Glen, where hunters go 
To lay their traps and hunt the fox and roe. 
I was quite young—not more than twenty-two, 
And there I lived and aU the people knew; 
And there lived two men that I’ll not forget— 
The worst two men, I think, I’ve ever met— 
Two brothers, Ben and John Churl, known by all 
As surly men. whose natures were to crawl 
Like adders in the stillness of the night, 

With venemous deeds and animal appetite. 
Back in the woods, just on a clearing there, 

A little hut stood, built quite low and square; 
’Twas never known by folks, on any side, 

That it had ever yet been occupied, 

Except by hunters who would pass that way, 
And use it for a sort of place to lay 
Their guns and ammunition, or their traps, 

Or even stop a night or two, perhaps. 

Twas in October I was passing by, 

When something there unusual caught my eye; 


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A little hut stood, built quite low and 
square. 


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Tjhe Poetical Works of James Kenneth Tolkien 


The hut had been repaired, without a doubt, 
And from the chimney smoke was coming out. 
I stepped up to the door and gave a rap, 

To make acquaintance with the unknown chap. 
The door soon opened;, and before me stood 
A man, appearing as a hunter would, 

Dressed in the plain coarse clothing hunters 
wear, 

Quite elderly, with stature very fair, 

Of fine face and a courteous manner, though— 
Unlike the manners common people know. 

’Tis needless to take time to emphasize, 

With more impressive language, my surprise 
On facing one of such genteel demean, 

So very seldom in that country seen. 

Abashed at my intrusion, with a choke 
To stammer out my errand, then I spoke, 

And told him that I’d noticed the abode 
Had been repaired, and its appearance showed 
Good signs of occupation, to my view, 

And to my mind seemed likely to be true, 

That some by-passing hunter was inside, 

And for his good acquaintance had applied. 

1 offered my heart-felt apology, 

Which he repaid by smiling down at me 
With such a glowing smile that all seemed well, 
Then bid me enter for a little spell. 

There everything was cosy as could be, 

The kettle singing out the time for tea. 

He laid his table, poured a horn of wine, 
Hospitably inviting me to join, 


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He talked about the hunting quietly, 

And all about the game around, but he 
Avoided saying aught to me about 
Himself, and who he was I’ve ne’er found out. 
^hen shortly afterwards I left the hut, 

With my good-night, and heard the door swing 
shut. 

And after that, whenever passing me, 

He always recognized me courteously; 

And so with all the settlers everywhere 
Who well respected his commanding air. 

He seemed to have good luck in hunting game, 
And in his trapping seemed his luck the same; 
And many times fur traders, passing through, 
Bought quantities of furs from him, ’twas true; 
And rumor, floated by some elf or witch, 

Said he, undoubtedly, was getting rich. 

One early morn I heard a rifle shot, 

And followed by another on a spot 

Hard by the hermit’s hut, and 1 thought sure, 

That he was bagging game right at his door. 

1 didn’t mind a quick run through the wood, 
And wished to see his plunder, if 1 could. 

I gained the clearing in a little time; 

Great Heavens! What was it? a dreadful 
crime; 

There lay the hermit, dead, upon the ground, 
And Ben Churl just near by I also found. 

Both had been shot; John Churl was standing 
there, 

With shouldered rifle and a sullen stare. 


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I felt the chill of murder in my veins, 

When gazing at the deepest dyeing stains 
That do not only stamp a victim’s end, 

But stripe the fiend’s heart, and God offend, 
Heartsick, 1 quick returned, to tell the news 
Of what I’d seen, along with my own views. 

A number hurried to the scene of death, 
With growing awe and many a sighing breath, 
To give rude burial with reverence, 

And learn the meaning of the grave offence. 
Churl’s tale was well fixed up, you may depend; 
He said he’d shot the hermit to defend 
Himself, and that the hermit had killed Ben, 
While they were passing by the ‘miser’s den.’ 
But this the settlers never could believe, 

So well they knew Churl’s nature to deceive; 
But, yet, they could do nought—no court had 
they, 

The nearest Justice being miles away. 

A few weeks after John Churl left the place 
For some small vill where no one knew his face, 
Blamed and disgraced, and to Mephisto sold , 
In his vain attempt to find the hermit’s gold. 
’Twas some years after, business took me forth 
To a small and out-o’-way place further north. 

I put up at a humble hostelry, 

Where I was treated very civilly. 

’Twas in the spring, and fires were burning still 
On every hearth, nights keeping damp and chill. 
One night while settlers sat before the glow, 

I heard them speak in conversation low, 


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^77be Poetical W or fa of James Kenneth Tolkien 


That did unveil the hermit’s mystery; 

As one man said, ‘It was like this, ye see: 

It ’pears that this John Churl some years ago 
Left Elfin Glen an’ hopped in here, ye know, 
To do the nasty work ’e’d done for years, 

To gain for ’im the blackest of careers. 

He brought with ’im a wife that proved a 
chouse, 

An’ furnished up that little old log house 
That stands away up yonder on the hill, 
Where eveiything looks peaceable an’ still. 
Wa-aK some time after Pete, the peddler, come 
To sell ’is goods an’ make ’is yearly sum; 

An’ jest afore ’is stock ’ad all been sold, 

He disappeared; a passin’ farmer told 
Us all ’e’d seem ’im but a few days past, 

An’ that ’e stopped at John Churl’s dwellin’ last. 
This caused suspicion ’mong the villagers, 

Who soon contrived to trap ’is murderers. 

The vi llage women formed a quiltin’ bee, 

An’ got the stiffest wine they could, d’e see, 

An’ they invited Mrs. Churl around 
To drink right freely and ’er wits confound. 
She come; they quickly finished with the task; 
Then all drank health an’ some began to ask 
Each other questions, as to w’at she’d do, 

If er own husband s guilt of crime she knew. 
Most said, “I’d tell on ’im,” an’ some said nought, 
An’ after w’ile, without the least forethought, 
Fired with the wine, did Mrs. Churl reply 
That ’er own husband caused a man to die. 


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C TT he Poetical Worlds of James Kenneth ^Tjol^ien 


Enough was said an’ soon the “bee” was o’er, 
And home she went an’ met Churl at the door. 
Suspicious, he, that somethin’ ’ad gone wrong. 
He asked ’er w’at kept ’er away so long, 

An’ if she’d let out any secrets there. 

She pled for mercy; ’e began to swear; 

An’ grabbed the axe an’ hit ’er on the head, 
An’ down she fell, ’is victim, an’ was dead. 

This ended John Churl’s crimes forevermore, 
For men of all around went by the score, 

An’ took ’im to a town without delay, 

W’ere law is king an’ justice ’as its sway, 

W’ere ’e confessed ’is life o’ butchery. 

He’d killed just six afore discovery; 

Two down in Elfin Glen, one in Maw-Yew, 

An’ three up ’ere, ’is wife, an’ peddlers two. 
An’ e’ v/as hanged,’ so there you have the end 
Of a man who led a life too bad to mend.” 

XX 

ANSON SINGS 

“Those days of youth and boyish truth, 
When all was bright and gay; 

When mother’s care was everywhere— 
Why did they pass away? 

Those apple-trees, and bumble-bees, 

That robin’s roundelay, 

That oriole that boldly stole 

My heart—O, where are they? 


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C where are those long ragged rows 
Where hidden berries lay? 

That I would strip and stain my lip— 
Have they all passed away? 

I still can see an apple-tree, 

And on a summer’s day 

A robin sings me warblings 
Whene’er 1 pass that way. 

I eat my fill of berries still, 

1 scent the breath of hay; 

The oriole sings, heart and soul, 

In each sweet month of May. 

But, one and all, I cannot call 
The same as used to be; 

For time does change, and they are strange, 
And have no charms for me. 

I’ll see no more those things of yore, 

That sped my youthful day; 

For years have rolled, and I am old, 

And all have passed away.” 

Erich — 

Ah! father Anson, sing it but again; 

Twas so much like the songs of ancient men, 
That used to strike inspiring harps at night, 
And sing within their camps of armoured might, 
Those strains that told of younger warrior days, 
When all was bright and hopeful to their gaze. 


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Tjbe Poetical Worlds of James Kenneth Tolkien 


Of those sweet days the old bard Rodrich sang, 
The big brass bell of Frankfort loudly rang, 
The bards of Treves breathed many a lingering 
note 

That now lies buried in their haunts remote. 
Yea, sing again; it has renewed the fire 
My spirit once did kindle with the lyre, 

In some forefather centuries ago; 

Yea, sing till all our hearts do overflow 
With keen enthusiasm and delight, 

Till all our voices shall at last unite. 

The good old man sang many times his song, 
In aged accents, deep, and low, and long, 

Till all around had learned and sung the piece, 
And weariness persuaded them to cease. 

Low burned at last the sleepy-growing fire, 
Reminding of the hour to retire; 

The candles impolitely flickered low 
(A gentle hint that it was time to go). 

Now, in a sort of melancholy strait, 

Young Erich drowsily does meditate— 

All lost in thought—no one can think for why; 
See how that moisture fills his large blue eye. 
‘‘Ah, me!” he sighs, “all gone those happy days, 
That precious little soul, her pretty ways, 

Like unto some sweet fairy—wiser still— 

And pretty as the little daffodil. 

Ah! Florence, wert thou saint or seraph bom, 
That used to teach me on a summer morn.” 


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Saunders — 

Stay, Erich, what strange sayings utter you? 

Why say you “Florence?” whence bid she 
adieu ? 

Why say you “precious soul,” and “daffodil,” 
And “seraph,” “saint,” and “fairy?” Are you 

ill? 

Erich — 

My sister was the burden of my thought, 

And for her soul, that’s gone, my spirit sought. 
When in that hearth of dying embers there 
1 chance to look, it fills my mind with care, 
For it brings back a cold November day, 

When her sweet spirit flew from me away. 

Anson — 

Pray, tell about this “seraph” and her mind; 
She truly was a flower hard to find. 

XXI 

b 

FLORENCE 

“A flower, extremely sweet, the lily queen, 

But, from what heaven? We knew not whence 
it came; 

For, when a bud, she knew of wiser things 
Than older people of the village farms; 

And, when a bud, she spoke with highest mind; 
Unearthly voices charged her little soul, 

And told her stories that had ne’er been told, 
Except to angels passing in the night. 


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An eye would fee that little shining 
head, 

And think the wa$ a flower growing 
there. 


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Her eyes were blue,, and calm, and deep with 
thought, 

And pure her countenance as lily fair; 
Unknown she was to other children’s pranks— 
Her little hand touched nought but benefit 
To some sad little buds more rude than she. 
Her tongue sang nought but love and holy 
thoughts, 

And, like the petal of a modest rose, 

Revived old age and kindled some small spark 
That smouldered deep into an aching heart. 
Her hair—yes, it was gold, but richer still, 
And far more piecious were its charms to me; 
And, often, ’twixt the glowing and the shade, 
When she had wandered o’er the little hill 
To take her seat between the churchyard 
mounds, 

An eye would see that little shining head, 
And think she was a flower growing there. 


The church-bell rings. She opes her eyes and 
ears, 

And wonders if ’tis calling those to prayer 
Who dwell within that sacred city there. 

She looks around, but not a lingering soul 
Nor sound does tell to her of presence there. 
And then she says, ‘‘There must be some mis¬ 
take, 

Or, surely they are Quakers, and their songs 
Of praise and prayer in silence give to God.” 


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Such pretty speeches oft she spoke to me 
When we were seated ’neath the apple-tree, 
Before the heat of noon, with languid gaze, 
Had looked upon us with its sleepy eye. 

How often she would pluck a dandelion, 

That, old and grey, had nearly passed away, 
And ask me how it ever came to be; 

And once she asked me, with a solemn face, 
If such, so fair, possessed a little soul; 

“For see!” she said, “They once were young 
and bright; 

They now have donned their little shrouds of 
grey; 

Their eaithly lives they now prepare to leave, 
When they will scatter lessons, pure and good, 
For next year’s babes to follow through their 
lives; 

They need no houses, for their faith in God 
Preserves them ’neath the heavens’ canopy; 
And selfishness they never yet have known; 
We tread, and pluck, and still they beam on us, 
As if to say, *’Tis for the sake of you 
That we are here, and if it pleases Him, 
Murmur we’ll not, but will in patience wait 
Until our sun has set behind the hill, 

Until our feebleness has taken wing, 

And flown beyond the ocean of the King.” 

s 

So spake she, thus she thought of many things 
All through each happy day until the night, 


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Till passed the childhood of this little bud, 
Before the longer days had stolen in; 

Then tenderness and sadness took their place, 
Mingled with hope, caressed with modesty, 

A plaintive glance upon the outer world, 

An eye of simple faith towards the sky. 

The hand that once would fold the pansy’s wing, 
And feed the birds that welcomed her at morn, 
Now guided brush and paint on canvas rude, 
To shade the pictures of her dreamy past. 

The heart that once embraced Dame Nature’s 
world, 

Now slumbered in the bosom of the Church. 
All worldly fancies (if had ever been) 

Had flown away and let the Spirit in. 
Forsooth, she lived not to this earth confined, 
Her shell was here, the precious pearl was not; 
And on a damp and chill November day, 

The shell was slowly sunk, and washed away. 


But, still 1 see her, e’en as much as then, 

A living light, appealing to the mind, 

That fills the vacant chair as some benign 
And watchful angel o’er my journey here; 

It seems to tell me what none others tell, 

And comfort me when worldly shades appear; 
And teach me how to smile when troubles come 
And pass within the portals of my home. 

It seems to say, “As in thy happiness, 

1 also share thy glass of bitter wine; 


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So, cast thy sorrows to the passing day, 

And laugh, as never laughed, your cares away, 
And sleep tonight a slumber, peaceful, deep, 
For 1 am by thy side, and, watchful, keep.’ ” 


XXII 

GOOD MORNING ALL 

The last glass now was passed, and all arose 
To drink good health to Saunders at the close, 
And Anson uttered, on behalf of all, 

Some words of gratitude that one might call 
A sort of speech unto the goodly host, 

But, like a benediction seeming most. 

Anson — 

Jake Saunders of Gahnobway village inn, 

Well pleased were we to gather, kith and kin, 
Beneath this roof of hospitality— 

Accept this toast from all our friends and me. 
Time speeds along; in time all old will be, 

But age can ne’er destroy the memory 
Of this, our meeting in this cosy room, 

Where all is free from trouble and from gloom. 
This sacred draught denotes a bond that’s strong 
And cannot break be time however long. 

And by this draught we wish prosperity, 

Long life and happiness in store for thee; 
And, more than this, an everlasting life, 

Free from old Mother Earth’s turmoil and strife. 


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Drink, boys, drink now, and then we'll say 
‘‘good night”— 

The morning soon will give to us its light— 
No, no, “good morning” is the word to say, 
What was I thinking of—'twill soon be day. 
Good morning, Jake; good morning Erich Martz, 
In time you will be master of the arts; 

Good morning, Stelbum, give my love to Jane; 
Good morning Chelcy—(just hand me my cane) 
And, Conley, you must call to see the folks 
Before returning to the forest oaks. 

Good morning, all; 1 hope it won't be long 
Before we'll meet again for tales and song. 

And so the night had passed and morning come 
To chase away those men. so humorsome, 

In old Gahnobway where Bill Conley staid 
While tempest voiced the winter's serenade. 



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TO OLD ACQUAINTANCE 

When daily cares have sped away and winter 
breezes blow 

I like to cast all work aside and hurry home, you 
know; 

Then close the dcor and rub my hands to wel¬ 
come in the heat, 

And place an easy chair to give my old-time 
“chum” a seat. 

I like to talk to him about the times of long ago, 

The many games we used to play, the tricks we 
used to know, 

The little bridge above the dam, the river swift 
and low, 

Where all the boys would come around to spend 
an hour or so. 

I like to see him smoke his pipe with pleasure 
in his eye, 

And hear him tell about his romps in summers 
drifted by, 

When he was but a thoughtless boy, a-living in 
a town 

Where folks were young at sixty and would cast 
no glances down 

On every honest boisterous boy who liked to 
jump and bound, 

And take full pleasure out of life when pleasure 
could be found. 


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4 


O, happy it doe* make my heart to hear him 
laugh again, 

With that assuring ring that tells of boyhood’s 
happy reign. 

And after he has sung the songs I’ve heard him 
sing before, 

I like to see him fill his pipe before he leaves 
the door; 

And shake his good v hard-working hand, that 
plants a rough adieu, 

Still wishing that time would allow another 
word or two. 

MUTUALITY 

To Jean Eugene Mareouin 

My dear old boy, you speak of love, hope, ten¬ 
derness and passion, 

Away from artful voices in society of fashion; 

You understand the stalwart heart; you know 
who brings you sorrow; 

And who’ll present his face today, and show 
his back tomorrow. 

We’ve walked along the crowded streets and 
through the hills together; 

We’ve heard the song old Nature sings in June 
and August weather; 

And, like two lovers, on we go and share each 
other’s sorrow; 

We blend our hearts’ good will today, and meet 
again tomorrow. 





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We’ve heard 
in June 


the song old Nature ting * 
and Augutt weather. 


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No petty creeds estrange our hearts; we are 
each other’s brother; 

Our minds dwell on those thoughts that are 
akin to one another. 

Then we’ll shake hands again, old boy, in hap¬ 
piness or sorrow, 

And smile at woes that come today; they’ll steal 
away tomorrow. 


SCHOOL IS O’ER 

Slipper, slapper, down the street, 

Sound the little urchins’ feet; 

Tedius day of study spent, 

Over slate and reader bent; 

School is o’er, and hearts are gay— 
Banished are the cares of day. 

Towards the held they mark their course, 
’Mid their shouts extreme and hoarse; 
See! the bat and baseball there, 
Sharing in their lack of care; 
Wantonness and folly stored 
In their souls—full pleasure poured. 

Play away while limb is young, 

Till your song of youth is sung; 

Boyhood days soon pass away— 

Bless the sun that shines today; 

Hearts are not so blithe and gay 
When the head is turning grey. 


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°?Tie Poetical W or fa of fames Kenneth Tolkien 


THE LAKELET 

Quiet and still; no ripple nor a sigh; 

At peace with all that ’neath the waters lie; 

At peace with God above. 

Lo! shadows come., dim, lazy-winged and grey, 
With tidings of the dying of the day, 
Embracing it with love. 

And, quiet still, the night descends apace, 
And, lingering round, usurps the shadow’s place 
To kiss the lakelet there; 

The dew-drops dip to mingle with her own; 
Though lip to lip, the night doth breathe alone, 
Till morning stirs the air. 





Page H 

















Quiet and »till; no ripple nor a sigh; 

At peace with all that *neath the waters 
lief 

At peace with Cod above. 


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Later Rhyme 











c&be Poetical Works of James Kenneth ^Uolkien 


MY SONG 

I sang to the world an ancient song, in the quiet 
twilight hour, 

Of an ancient land, in an ancient time, with an 
ancient king in power; 

And the song was the work of ages past—taught 
by masters of old, 

With many a gem of richest worth, for the won¬ 
drous truths they told; 

My voice rang out through wood and rock, and 
over the peaceful sea— 

’Twas lost on the world, for, only its echo came 
sounding back to me. 


But I’ll never destroy the old song—in every¬ 
thing there is good— 

The ocean has droned the same old song as long 
as the world has stood. 

1 will rig it up in a new garb—in new words of 
my own, 

Going deeper into the meaning than ever before 
was known; 

Then the world shall awaken and listen, and 
nations shall hear my song 

Ringing forth, through cavern and mountain, 
echoing loud and long— 

As the voice of the royal viking; as the voice of 
an ancient chief, 

Charming the listening ear of his tribe with the 
strains of a new belief. 


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^Ube Poetical W or fa of James Kenneth C £T olfaen 


And a young bard, in the future, will like to 
sing my song 

When the morning sun shines over the dale—as 
long as the day is long; 

But, when he sings my song at even, a voice will 
lure him away 

To a lofty pinnacle, that he may see the light 
of a newer day; 

And the thread-bare attire of my song will he 
see, worn by the dust of time, 

Till all that is left are the noble old rags that 
preserved the rhythm and rhyme. 

He will rig it up in a new garb, in choicer words 
of his own. 

Going deeper into the meaning than ever before 
was known; 

Then the world shall awaken and listen, and 
nations shall hear his song 

Ringing forth, through cavern and mountain, 
echoing loud and long— 

As the voice of a royal viking; as the voice of 
an ancient chief, 

Charming the listening ear of his tribe with the 
strains of a new belief. 

Thus, through revolving ages, the wheels of time 
have rolled; 

Our themes and our great inventions are noth¬ 
ing but songs of old, 

Remodeled to suit the modem minds, and the 
modern times that be. 

As the nectar, that’s drawn for this parched old 
earth, goes back to its home in the sea; 


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c ?7 he Poetical Worlds of James Kenneth Tolkien 


And the grand old world has listened in each 
decade of years, 

While the song has been voiced, by men of 
thought, through good and great careers; 

Each, bound for his own Valhalla—his destiny 
of fame. 

Has left his fruits, and men, who come, are in¬ 
spired by another’s name. 

NOEL-TIDE 

1 dreamed that a world was made for me, and 
1 named it Noel-tide— 

A grand old world of happy hearts, with love 
on every side; 

The children sang in the crystal streets, the 
bells vibrated long, 

Pealing forth good will toward men in ever¬ 
lasting song; 

1 thought of the Babe that was born for me, and 
my heart was glad and strong. 

I dreamed that a world was made for me, void 
of the cares and night; 

For the one great theme of each man’s heart 
was that of living right. 

No more the selfish quest and strife, the grasp¬ 
ing and the greed, 

For the elements governing this man’s world 
had wonderful laws, indeed; 

I thought of the Boy that lived for me, and 
lived this wondrous creed. 


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I dreamed that a world was made for me, but 
my dream has passed away; 

I awake and find the self-same world, the world 
, of yesterday, 

With all its boisterous clamour, its vain and 
foolish pride, 

And the petty minds that long for fame that we 
meet on every side; 

1 think of the Man that died for me, and by 
this world denied. 

But there is a world for you and me, the same 
as Noel-tide, 

Where poor old hearts can still enjoy the hap¬ 
piness they provide; 

Then away with thoughts that nettle, and live 
in a world sublime, 

With a word for each that rings as the sweet 
and melodious sound of a rhyme; 

Let us think of the Christ who reigns for us, and 
leave all the strife to time. 

CHRISTMAS-LAND 

Sunrise clear, and a joyous good morn; 

A glad, merry laugh and the toot of the horn, 

And a gay little army of girls and boys, 

All lost in the rapture that comes with the toys; 

Red bells and holly, in gorgeous array, 

Add to the delights of a glorious day, 

Where good Kris Kringle awaits their command, 

In this grand old home in Christmas-land. 


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c&he Poetical Works of James Kenneth Tolkien 


A dawn that is bleak, and a day that is shorn 
Of the greeting and mirth of a Christmas morn, 
Two wan little faces, and four little eyes, 

So soon to awaken, to search for the prize— 
Two empty stockings, hung there, on the door, 
By four little hands, on the even before. 

Oh! hasten, Kris Kringle, and lend a hand 
In this chill, barren home in a Christian land. 

But, hearken! a tap on the door, it is true, 
And a Kringle comes in with a bundle or two— 
(Not the regular Kris, from a fairy-land, quaint, 
But a hard-working man, with the heart of a 
saint), 

Fills up the stockings with candies and toys, 
That will brighten the faces of girls and boys, 
And preach in a way they will understand 
What a Christmas should be in a Christian land. 


Sunshine bright, and a gladsome day 
To the generous heart, as he goes his way; 
This world was not made for the selfish few; 
It was formed for the liberal, honest and true; 
Let us kindle a fire wherever we go, 

That will warm up the heart of a brother we 
know, 

And live down the record of those who stand, 
Who have never believed in Christmas-land. 





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‘C’Ae Poetical W or fa of James Kenneth C CT olfaen 


A YULETIDE SONG 

Let us sing out our mirth as we mingle today 
In the realm of holly and toys, 

Where the children still reign with their free¬ 
dom and play, 

’Mid the jubilant rumble of noise. 

Let us chorus a song with that glad merry ring, 
That the joyous alone can know, 

With a welcome for all the festivities bring, 
And a smile that will live and grow. 

Let us sing out our song in the lives that we live, 
And infuse its music and rhyme 

In our deeds, our words and the smiie that we 
give, 

As we travel along with time. 

And a strain will be caught that we wish to im¬ 
part, 

And the pleasure will be our pay; 

When an echo returns from a grateful heart, 
We’ll remember our song of today. 

THE COQUETTE 

Ah! now she blooms, a beauty there, 

A lovely rose, with fragrance rare— 
Come lovers, all, you each may take 
A petal for flirtation’s sake; 

But leave the thorns she’s hidden near, 

She’s saving them for hubby dear. 


Page 6i 














Where the blue-flag waves, in grandeur, 
over the mareh once more. 


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C CT be Poetical Worlds of James Kenneth Tolkien 


RESURRECTION 

Oh! for a resurrection song;, and a mellow 
southern breeze, 

And a new birth on this grand old earth of rock 
and land and seas; 

King Dandelion, in glory, comes forth, with his 
golden crown, 

To reign in his rightful kingdom, on meadow 
and hill and down; 

Hyacinthe on the mountain, violet in the wood, 

With the daring, bold wake-robin back in the 
same old neighborhood, 

Water-weed and bulrush, here they come 
with hellebore, 

Where the blue-flag waves, in grandeur, over 
the marsh once more. 

Blazing-star in the valley, blue-heart along 
the sand; 

Oh! this is the resurrection of the spirit of 
Natureland. 

Oh! for a resurrection song, and a story, often 
told, 

Of a Man who gave His life for man, in an age 
that is past and old, 

Bearing the scorn of a chosen tribe, bearing the 
cross and thorn, 

But He burst the bonds of 'death and tomb on 
His resurrection mom; 


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"TTAe Poetical Worfys of James Kenneth Tolkien 


True Vine, of the vineyard, that grew by the 
quiet sea, 

Lily of the Valley, there, that bloomed for 
you and me, 

Sacted Rose of Sharon, all symbolic of His 
love, 

They all arose when the Christ arose to return 
to His home above, 

Back to His Father’s mansions, back to His 
land to reign; 

Oh! this was His resurrection, then, from 
earth to His own domain. 

Oh! for a resurrection song, and a time that is 
to be, 

And a clear, glad trump for those who sleep in 
the silent earth and sea, 

When the great elect of the Father shall come 
into their own, 

And leave behind their place below, oblivious 
and unknown; 

Tars of the angry waters, warriors of the 
lands, 

And the many, strayed and perished, on the 
burning desert sands, 

Rovers of plain and mountain, toilers of the 
cave, 

They will all arise from this poor old earth, 
unmindful of state and grave, 

When the long, long sleep is ended and man¬ 
kind shall understand; 

Oh! this will be resurrection, then, from earth 
to the Fatherland. 


/’age m 
















And the loved onee gone, oh! dieturb 
them not, 

For we placed them there in that eacred 
•pot. 


Poetical Works of James Kenneth Tolkien 




^Ube Poetical Works of James Kenneth Tolkien 


AWAKEN THE FLOWERS 

Arouse them, O Earth, for the sun is warm, 
And you need not fear the return of storm; 
The wrath of the tempest at last is spent, 

The heralds of winter are homeward bent, 
And the ominous clouds have gone their way, 
Leaving no trace in the heavens today; 

Oh! remove the shroud and open the tomb— 
Awaken the flowers and let them bloom. 

Let the great ones sleep—they have earned re¬ 
pose, 

And their deeds live on, though their years may 
close; 

And the loved ones gone, oh! disturb them not, 
For we placed them there in that sacred spot, 
When their hearts grew weary, and worn with 
care, 

And they longed to slumber—so, leave them 
there, 

Till the Father, Who knows them and loves 
them best, 

Shall call them, at last, from their peaceful rest. 

But, give us the flowers; we need them here— 
Our hearts will grow lighter when they appear; 
And the exiled birds—for, you know, we dote 
On the clear, sweet sound of the robin’s note; 

Then the hours will glide, and our cares will 
flee, 

For cares cannot stay when the heart is free; 
Oh! remove the shroud and open the tomb, 
Awaken the flowers and let them bloom. 


Page 05 

















A Glad Yule-tide 

By James Kenneth Tolkien 

N OW, here, in the old burgh, 
we’ll mingle together, 
Uniting our hearts on this 
jubilant day; 

By the fire we’re snug from the 
keen winter weather, 

So cares of the old world 
may journey their way. 
Then hang up the mistletoe— 
blend it with holly, 
Come, dangle the bells in the 
portals around, 

Then jingle the glasses and let 
us be jolly, 

And gladness of Yule-tide 
will surely abound. 

Let us not live today in the 
dawn of tomorrow, 

Nor pause in the shade of a 
spent yesterday, 

For the thought of the future 
may usher in sorrow— 
The ghost of the past has 
now vanished away. 
Then crowd in today all the 
mirth we can muster— 
Come, jingle our glasses 
across and around, 

And the turbulent winter may 
whistle and bluster— 
The gladness of Yule-tide 
will surely abound. 












Acrostic Verse 




c ?7 he Poetical Worlds of James Kenneih Tolkien 


TAKE THY REST 


To Clara Magdaline Wymer 
Whose fortune here was anything but coveted 


Cease now thy cares, beloved, and take thy rest; 
Long seem the hours at home., but, then, ’tis best, 
At last, to enter into thy reward— 

Rich and abundant as thy love hast stored, 
And dwell within the mansion of thy Lord. 

Many a trial and sorrow seemed to be 
About the best this world bequeathed to thee; 
Garrulous tongues, that, from the first, began, 
Did ever flourish in the realm of man— 
Active in naught, save preying on the weak, 
Lashing and maiming the timid and the meek; 
Ignoble prating—let them chatter on: 

No one shall harass thee where thou art gone; 
Expel thy fears—behold! it is the dawn. 

We knew thee well and loved thee better still, 
Yearning to have thee, were it but His will; 
Memory holds thee in the silent chair, 

Ere night enshrouds the dying day—but, there— 
Rest thou in peace, and in the Master’s care. 


Acrostic Verse — t 












^Cbe Poetical W or fa of James Kenneth C ?T olfaen 


TRIBUTES 


To Mra. Annabel Riley, who was born in Inverneae, Scot¬ 
land, on St. Patrick '* Day, and whoae moat aerioua 
fault war (it haa been aaid) her inability to 
detect the ahortcominga of her children, 
whom ahe loved devotedly 


St. Patrick’s Day, 1911 

Many a wish to you, mother, today— 

Always the same, in your own loving way, 
Rich in possession of laurels of worth, 
Christian in spirit and loyal by birth; 

Here’s to our mother, the dearest on earth. 

Sweet are the visions, the pictures of old 
Etchings we’ve sketched through the years that 
have rolled; 

Views of the past we, forever, can find, 

Each, in a frame, on the walls of the mind; 
Nearer to children no mother could be, 

Than the mother we’ve loved since we knelt at 
your knee; 

Ever so trusting and gentle and true, 

Even, by trial’s path, journeying through; 
Now, though our praises be feeble and small, 
Thyself and these virtues we, jointly, extol; 
Here’s to our mother, the nearest of all. 


A croetic Verne—2 











c&be Poetical Works of James Kenneth Tolkien 


St. Patrick’s Day, 1912 

Another may sing of a beautiful flower, 
Narcissus or rose, blooming there in the bower— 
Nature, as music, will ever beguile 
A sorrowful face into forming a smile; 

But, sweeter the theme our hearts would convey, 
Endeared to us now as in years passed away, 
Let us sing of the love of a mother today. 

Roses bloom fair, but, beware of the thorn— 
In the source of the beauty is hidden the scorn; 
Love like a mothers will never betray 
Even a child that has wandered away; 

You are the theme of our praises today. 

St. Patrick’s Day, 1913 

Ah! now the day is here, Shamrocks adorning, 

New as the birth of Spring, fresh as the morn¬ 
ing— 

Nothing’s too good for her—she is our mother, 
All that is staunch and true—there is no other; 
Bring forth your gladdest song, praising her 
in it; 

Ever proclaim her worth, cease not a minute; 
Leave other thoughts aside ere we begin it. 

Rose and forget-me-not—we need no other— 
In each we find the sweet virtues of mother; 
Love that a mother knows, time changes never— 
Each bond, her heart has made, nothing can 
sever; 

Years come and go, but, her love stays forever. 


Acrostic Verse —.1 














DEC 17 1913 














IBRARY OF CONOR* 




